


Children's Toys

by holy_milk



Series: prompt memes/requests [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Feanor & Fingolfin drama in the background, Gen, Reconciliation, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22198729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holy_milk/pseuds/holy_milk
Summary: Nolofinwë gets to meet his nephew for the very first time. He's not as happy about it as you might think.
Relationships: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: prompt memes/requests [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1530497
Comments: 13
Kudos: 71





	Children's Toys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HewerOfCaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/gifts).



> Written for the request "Fingolfin and Maedhros + A moment’s respite".
> 
> Maedhros is whatever is the Elvish equivalent of a 5-6 years old boy, Fingolfin is 11-12 (-ish).

Nolofinwë had been haunted by a vague bad feeling all morning, and his worst fears were confirmed as soon as he walked into the hall of his father’s house.

Fëanáro was back in Tirion.

Thankfully, he didn’t come face to face with his half-brother, but he could sense him all over the place. It was as if the shadow of Fëanáro’s dreadful personality still lingered in far corners of the room and in his mother’s tight, forced smile as she greeted him.

There was, however, one more tangible manifestation of the crown prince’s presence that had taken the form of a small boy sitting on the king’s lap and fidgeting with a toy.

“Nolo, my boy,” Finwë cried in delight as he noticed his son, “I believe you haven’t had the chance to meet your nephew yet.”

The boy stared at him, his pale face lit with cautious curiosity, and Nolofinwë stared back. He hadn’t had to be told who the boy was. His bright copper hair was just like his mother’s.

As silence settled in the hall, Finwë patted the boy’s shoulder gently.

“This is Nolofinwë, your uncle. I’ve told you about him, remember?” he cooed fondly. “Maitimo, be a good boy, say hello.”

“Hello,” the boy—Maitimo—said obediently, and there was a subtlest hint of wariness in his voice.

Nolofinwë said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the toy in the boy’s hands.

It was a miniature wooden horse on wheels, with a mane and tail so finely crafted that they almost felt real to the touch. His father had cut it out himself, and they painted it together in the rare hours when Finwë had a break from his kingly responsibilities, locked away from the rest of the world in the king’s private study.

“It’s my horse,” he muttered under his breath, and Finwë looked at him with confusion.

“What’s that, my dear?”

“It’s my horse,” Nolofinwë repeated, perhaps a bit too loud this time.

Maitimo’s mouth fell open and he shifted uneasily, clutching the toy harder. Finwë and Indis exchanged glances.

“It is, isn’t it?” Finwë smiled at his son. “Maitimo found it lying under a bench somewhere in the garden, and I told him he could take it. Can’t he?” the king raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

Nolofinwë felt his cheeks flush. It was true that he had forgotten about this toy years ago, and there was no reason for him to feel angry about it. Still, for some inexplicable reason the sight of Fëanáro’s son holding something that had once been so dear to him—something that was the symbol of his father’s love as it was before Fëanáro came and took that away from him—the sight of that made something dark and unpleasant stir in his chest.

“He can’t,” Nolofinwë said, his hands fisted at his sides.

Maitimo’s lips quivered dangerously, and Finwë put an arm around him, frowning.

“Don’t be unreasonable, Nolo,” there was sternness in his voice now. “Maitimo’s a guest, and you’re too old to play with it anyway.”

Nolofinwë stared at the floor between them, biting his lip. He could hear his mother’s dress rustle as she came up to him, laying a placating hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll play with it and give it back to you,” she said quietly so that only he could hear, “it’s not—"

_Crack._

Maitimo let out a little ‘oh’ as he held up the hand clutching the horse’s tail, now completely detached from the rest of the toy.

Nolofinwë froze. He could see his father’s lips moving, but his voice sounded distant and muffled, as if it had to break through layers upon layers of sea water before reaching him.

“Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll have it fixed—or we’ll find you a new one—”

Nolofinwë spun on his heels, shaking away his mother’s hand, and darted out from the hall.

* * *

He stayed in his bedroom for the rest of the day, ignoring his father’s insistent knocking and the servants’ meek tapping, ignoring even his mother’s desperate pleas. In the end, they left him alone.

He was laying on his bed now, staring at the high ceiling with unseeing eyes and willing himself to go to sleep. Perhaps he could sleep long enough that there wouldn’t be a trace of Fëanáro anywhere in the house when he woke up.

The creaking of a door being opened tore him out of his musings. He went still, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion as he listened to the padding of steps cross the room to stop by the side of his bed.

“Nolo?” Maitimo called in a small voice.

“Go away,” he muttered, not turning his head.

The boy said nothing. Neither did he leave. Nolofinwë could hear his breathing.

He sat up abruptly, glaring at the disturber.

“Go away,” he cried and felt a pang of shame when Maitimo recoiled, his nose scrunching up unhappily.

But the son of Fëanáro did not leave. Nolofinwë groaned in frustration and dragged his hands through his hair.

“What do you want?” he demanded, exasperated.

Maitimo held out his hand silently and dropped something on the sheets. Bending over to squint at it, Nolofinwë realized it was his wooden horse. All in one piece.

“I asked Mom to—to fix it,” Maitimo said, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I did—I didn’t want to break your toy.”

The next thing he knew, the boy burst into tears, his whole body shaking, and Nolofinwë felt his heart sink. He stared at the horse dumbly.

“Stop it,” he commanded and, when Maitimo didn’t obey, took him by the shoulders. “Look at me.”

He had to wait quite a while until Maitimo calmed a little and looked up at him, his cheeks wet with tears. Seeing his face so closely for the first time, Nolofinwë realized, with a sinking heart, how uncannily like Fëanáro he looked.

Except Nolofinwë had never seen Fëanáro cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

He patted the place beside him and waited for Maitimo—still hiccupping quietly—to climb onto the bed.

“It wasn’t about the toy,” he said quietly when the boy curled up next to him, looking miserable.

Maitimo blinked.

“What was it about, then?” he asked uncertainly.

The boy looked small and frail in the dim light of Telperion seeping through the curtains, his brow knit unhappily and his shoulders sagged. Nolofinwë sighed and passed a hand over his face.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he replied. He started to think it really didn’t.

Silence fell over them for a while as Maitimo picked at the covers, looking thoughtful. And then…

“You can take the horse if you want,” Nolofinwë said. “Not forever, but… You can play with it when you visit Father—I mean—Grandfather.”

Maitimo cast a quick glance at the toy and shook his head, a shadow passing over his face.

“I don’t want to.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I do.”

Nolofinwë frowned. Then his face softened as a thought occurred to him.

“I can play with you, then.”

The boy’s face lit up.

“Will you?”

“I will.”

As if he’d only been waiting for him to say so this whole time, Maitimo slid down to the floor, grabbing the horse with one hand and Nolofinwë’s hand with the other. Nolofinwë gasped as the boy pulled him along.

He followed Maitimo resignedly down the corridors, trying not to pay attention to the smiling servants stealing discreet glances at them and listening to the child’s merry babbling instead. _Maybe it’s not so bad_ , he thought.

After all, he had been asking his parents for a little brother quite a lot recently.


End file.
